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Tuesday, February 28, 2012

In relation to the post about the whole "not believing in love" thing, I believe it behooves me to address how exactly I go about "relationships."

This sounds very high school guidance counselor of me (no offense meant, of course, to what I'm sure are thousands of fabulous high school guidance counselors who will inevitably read this blog), but I tend to see people as people. They will fit niches in my life, whether that be somebody to trade graphic novels from our personal home libraries with, somebody who will get drunk with me and yell about gender inequality, somebody I will fuck, or somebody who I will just shut the hell up around because I don't feel like receiving a lecture about my "depraved lifestyle." Maybe...just maybe...it'll be somebody two whom I give my version of love.

So when I enter "relationships," I usually define that as the part where you know my first name, and I will most likely know yours unless I am having a bout of memory loss (likely) and can't remember it. Once this incidence has occurred, let the chips fall where they may. Personally, this way of entering "relationships" is fairly nice, because there are no expectations from the get-go. You are a total stranger who I am learning the name of, and eventually I will figure out where I want you in my life. Sometimes this takes awhile, sometimes it takes until the end of a first encounter. Either way, I think it simplifies things to not obsess and expect, and just let things happen.

Saturday, February 25, 2012

When one is describing fetishes, it's always helpful to have brief descriptors. i.e. "choking," "fisting," "spanking," etc. Specific verb actions that you can be into, and that others can read about and instantly know just about what you are talking about.

There is no brief fetish description one can use for the look a man gives you when he is beyond speech. When whatever you are doing for him or to him is making him so happy/aroused that he can't do anything anymore but just look at you, speechless and completely beyond rational thought. It's second only to the small little noise men make when you realize a specific desire or fantasy of theirs.

I'm okay without having a clean, single verb to describe these things. It makes it all the more erotic whenever it happens to not have a word to clearly explain it.

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

First, fantastic news for me that I am off of the blood thinners completely! (Hubby and I are celebrating with Chipotle and some champagne.)

So this brings up for me an idea of finally getting back into the sub space that I was comfortable with before starting the medication 6 months ago. And it's a nice idea.

So for those that are interested, here's my little history in the "scene."

I got into the scene because I liked sex. That's really the long story short of the entire thing. A woman I met my freshman year of college was into BDSM. I was into having sex with her. I want to make it very clear that I am not the type of person who changes themselves in order to have a "relationship" with people. I didn't fundamentally change who I was in order to be with this woman. BDSM was not forced upon me as some ultimatum. The first time I met this woman she invited me to an oil wrestling party at her apartment. That night when I slept in her bed with her she held my hands above my head and bit my nipples and I thought, "okay, not so bad, really." After about a month when she took me to my first BDSM club and I volunteered to be strapped to a St. Andrews cross and she flogged me I found myself really, really liking that.

This was also my introduction into being a bratty bottom, and to the idea that I didn't really feel pain. I knew a bit about the pain thing as I already had 3 tattoos, and all of them had been more of an "mmm" than an "ouch" experience for me. When I felt the flogger hit my bare skin, it didn't hurt. It was more of a test. Could I take this and survive? I found myself answering that I could definitely take it. Actually, I could take much more. So when she came around the cross to check on me, I asked, "is that all?"

In further explorations as a bottom, this began to be a problem. Things just don't hurt. Even when they do, it's not in a way that I want it to stop. It's more in a way that I want it to go as far as it possibly can until I am crying; sobbing with the physical strength that my body can show. Even when I'm healing, when the bruises are purple and tender, I don't hurt. This hasn't happened since beginning the blood thinners, as I've had to be extra careful about bruising, etc. Being off the blood thinners means I can get back to the type of play that I am really into, which is the 0-60 WHAM fucking hit me type of play.

It's been frustrating to not be as sassy as I would like to be, to be hit as hard as I'd like to be in response to that sass.

Thursday, February 16, 2012

Feeldoe. Seriously, folks. Feeldoe. Look into it. Here are all the things that are awesome about it, in no particular order.

1. It is made of medical grade silicon, so cleaning it is super easy.

2. No harness. This is probably the main selling point for me. It's almost as though I have an actual dick, and I can fuck, stroke, and play with it a lot more naturally.

3. It comes with possibly the most powerful bullet egg I have ever found. That thing vibrates from insert bulb to tip of the dick, and it is awesome.

4. If you're sitting down, you can sort of ride on the bulb while little ridges stimulate the clit, and you can stroke your cock at the same time! (This is a similar point to 2, but worth it's own, I thought.)

The only drawback I found is if you happen to orgasm rather strongly (which somebody I know does), it's possible to squeeze out the bulb, and then the whole thing just kind of goes "flop." But I'm sure with practice something could be figured out.

Wednesday, February 15, 2012

As promised from my previous post, here we go on the thought process as to not believing in love. This is something I've argued a lot with myself about, so hopefully it won't get too disjointed, although knowing me it will be anything but easy to comprehend.

Here's a link to an awesome, sem-related Oglaf comment for those of the tl;dr persuasion.

My general philosophy, when not being summed up expertly in the exemplary words of Mr. Brian Kinney:

"I don't believe in love. I believe in fucking. It's honest, it's efficient. You get in and out with the maximum of pleasure, and minimum of bullshit. Love is something that straight people tell themselves they're in, so they can get laid. And they end up hurting each other, because it was all based on lies to begin with." (Season 1, Episode 1)

^ Hearing this was a bit like the first time I stumbled upon the word "bisexual" - a clarifying and amazing experience. I thought, "yes! That's exactly it. Thank you, culture, for putting this neatly wrapped explanation for the way I feel into my lap."

The reason I call myself an agnostic about love is, for me, love is quite like a religion. You have your believers, your disbelievers, your fanatics, and your born-agains. You have people who use "love" as a justification when they can't explain something any other way, and you have people that use "love" to justify doing terrible, horrible things to other people. I have felt that love was something I was supposed to have - that, as the saying goes, "you're nobody until somebody loves you." This is not a, "wah society sucks blah blah oppression" post. It goes deeper than that even. It's not about the image of a white dress with a fancy man in a tux, or the "happily ever after" of 2.5 kids and a white fence. It's not an argument against "the one," and how can one person meet all of your needs blah blah bullshit. It's the idea that regardless of what type of lifestyle you live, there's supposed to be love in it, and if you don't necessarily need that/want it, it makes you weird and you should probably be psycho-analyzed to make sure you aren't saran wrapping people up to murder in your free time.

It's just never made sense to me. Why am I supposed to want it? What does it give me that I don't already have? Why does the use of one small word change things to a point of no return?

Then usually the person I am arguing with brings up the point that I am married, and that I use the word, "love" quite frequently with my spouse.

At which point I usually try to make clear that I didn't go into that relationship looking for love. That I wasn't expecting it, or assuming that I was going to get it just because we were somehow more "exclusive" than any other two random people on the Earth. And that just because we say the word now does not give me some sort of security blanket where either of us can say the other won't decide they've had enough and pack up and leave. We stay together because we want to, because we enjoy each other's time. There's this handy little four-letter word that society and the Oxford English Dictionary has given us to describe it, and so we use it. There's always a little asterisk against it, though, much in the same way as there is when one of us uses the word "wife," or "husband" in public, or when I say, "no, I don't have anything much planned this weekend." And the asterisk is annoying to have to explain every time it comes up, so we don't.

Sunday, February 12, 2012

For a long time I convinced myself that I was unlovable. It had a little bit to do with the way I was brought up. With two parents that were busy cycling the drain with their own problems, it wasn't really important to ever make sure that their daughter's emotional needs were being met with any consistency. I faded into the background at home unless either one of them decided to take out their anger on something that I'd done, and I attempted to solve that problem by desperately trying to make everything perfect.

Real, emotional love terrified me. Philophobia is the academic terminology. I didn't know what it was, or how people experienced it. The first time somebody told me they loved me in high school, I was actually physically nauseous. I spent the better part of my teenage years getting into relationships that were purely about physical expression. Making out, blowjobs, fingering, but never ever saying things like, "I enjoy spending time with you." This continued into college. When a woman and I went on a "date" (like dinner, dancing, keep all our clothes on type of date), and she sent me a mix CD the next day, I just thought, "how cool. New music to listen to." It never crossed my mind that somebody might genuinely enjoy being around me, that somebody might think about me even after I wasn't there.

I took a personal vendetta against "normal" relationships. "It's okay! I'm just in this for the sex." Not that I didn't actually really enjoy sex, but there was a conscious part of me that was intentionally separating it from any actual feelings. If I was in it just for the sex, then the people I was with were also just in it for the sex. I slowly started justifying those all-your-clothes on type dates because I knew it wasn't because anybody gave a shit about me whether I had clothes on or not; that I would eventually not, and that was the appeal.

Then I slipped. I met a fantastic man who genuinely did care about me. I tried to keep it purely about the physical, but I slipped once during sex and said, "I love you," instead of "I love this." (We'd been together for about 2 months at that point.) He stopped mid-stroke and I immediately started crying. Then he hugged me tight and said, "I love you, too."

It's been an interesting journey since then. I still don't really believe in love, but I've at least allowed myself to feel it. (If you will, I'm a bit of an agnostic about love now. I recognize that it could possibly exist, but I still don't think it has much effect on me on a daily basis.) That's an argument for another post.

Saturday, February 11, 2012

One of the nice things about being on the pill, in addition to the whole circle-slash babies thing, was there was always one week every month that had a row of placebos and that was the week I knew I was going to get my period.

Now that I've been taken off the pill, it's like the damn thing just decides to show up (or not) whenever it feels like it. If I thought waiting until Wednesday of that placebo week for my period to start was stressful, it's an entirely different type of stress to actually have no idea at all when it'll decide to make it's grand entrance.

It is always at the edge of my conscious thought that people must think I lead a very boring life. I never have many weekend plans and I didn't do much the night before.

It breaks down to just not being comfortable with my authentic self. How does one say, "I spent some time reworking an internet community I'm part of where men come to have a Mistress. This weekend? Some friends are coming over for a cbt demonstration." It's just one of those things that you learn not to mention in polite conversation.

Wednesday, February 8, 2012

Busy, busy weekends. Busy life in general. I'm neglecting a lot of class work right now in favor of more "fun" things (i.e. dates, munches, gang bang parties, the usual). On the one hand it makes me feel a bit like a slacker. On the other hand, I feel surprisingly non-stressed about a lot of it. I'm still getting the work done - it might not be quality, but it's there.

In the meantime, I'm honing my more "fun" skills and activities, and finding a place where I feel comfortable. It's always interesting to be on the continuum of things, i.e. more experienced than some but not as experienced as others. Still learning. Thanks, all, for being on the journey with me.